Bullets of sweat drip down my face and pool into a puddle beneath me. I’m not being interrogated by the KGB, I’m doing hot yoga. (Voluntarily – what was I thinking?) This is my first practice.

The journey to the mat started the previous night, when I grumbled to Jen, my fellow nightshift colleague, about my battle to sleep, the needle on my stress o’meter pointing to “emergency, emergency”, and my joint issues (no, not that kind of joint).

She suggested I give hot yoga a chance.

“Your mornings are flexible, why shouldn’t you be?” she said.

Because at 55, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I’m too old to start yoga, I countered.

It’s never too late to start anything, said Jen, the optimist to my pessimist.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve been practising for decades or if it’s your first day — what matters is your presence when you take your place on your mat.

And that’s how I find myself present and cross-legged on a mat as ceiling heaters turn the studio into a sauna.

The instructor asks us to choose an intention for the class. My intention is gratitude – gratitude at being able to be on the mat, when the world is flailing around our ears.

Two minutes later, we do our first downward dog, and I update my intention to not bring up my breakfast.

Then the instructor tells us to go to up-dog.

“What’s up-dog?” I whisper to Jen, who is on a nearby mat.

”Same old, same old,” she replied. “Just living my best life.”

“No, not, ‘What’s up, dawg? … ‘What’s up-dog?’ – you know the yoga position our instructor wants us to get into?”

Turns out “up dog” is a backbend on your belly, often part of Sun Salutations, that stretches the chest and abdomen while strengthening the arms, wrists, and spine.

I peel myself off the floor and stand up. The teacher tells us to do the eagle pose.

I try to copy the young, slim and graceful yogis who have intertwined their arms and legs and are sitting back into a single-leg squat.

I lift my left leg, flap my right arm, twist my body, wobble, wrap my left arm around some limb that I don’t recognise (please let it be mine and not my neighbour’s) and pray I don’t faceplant.

Sweat is stinging my eyes and making my grip slippery.

Everyone else’s eagle is elegant; mine resembles a dying pigeon.

I upgrade my intention once again – to leave the class with a shred of dignity.

Just as I’m starting to feel a glimmer of pride for not toppling over, the instructor cheerfully announces our next challenge: standing splits.

I muddle up my left and right. In a bid to correct my error, I shift my balance too far forward. I collapse on my chin and kiss the mat.

It’s time to make one final adjustment to my intention – this one is much more realistic. I intend this mat not to be the place where I take my final breath. Please let me survive hot yoga.

We go through a sequence of poses, up-dog, downward dog, cow, cat, cobra, and then the instructor tells us to come into a warrior pose.

This is one pose I can do. The super yogis can learn something from my lifetime of worrying.

I sit on my mat and put my head in my hands. I think about the state of the world, the environment, and my never-ending to-do list.

I look up. Everyone else is standing in noble positions.

It’s around now that the heat and humidity take their toll. The teacher tells us it’s time for savasana, also known as the corpse pose. How fitting, I think.

As I lie on the mat covered in a thick layer of sweat, I think of the hot yoga benefits Jen had rattled off: improved sleep, recovery, balance, agility, flexibility, strength, focus, mood, and a cardiovascular boost to boot.

She’s right: my racing mind has slowed, my tight shoulders have released, and for the first time in weeks, I have not thought about my to-do list.

The class came to an end. After namastaying the instructor, I namaleft.

Walking out of the oppressive studio into the rush of glorious cool air outside made the whole class worthwhile.

I survived. In fact, I even enjoyed it. Perhaps you can teach an old up-dog new tricks.